Must Be Love (21 page)

‘How long will she have to stay?’ I ask, forcing my breath past the lump in my throat.

‘A couple of days,’ Ben says quietly. ‘She’ll have to be induced.’

At first I don’t understand, and then it dawns on me with a sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach that the baby’s still inside her, that she’s going to have to go through labour to deliver it.

‘I am here,’ Emma mutters. ‘I don’t need a bloody interpreter. I’m not ill.’

‘Shh, darling,’ Ben says softly. ‘Why don’t I tuck you in? You need some rest.’

‘I don’t need anything. I want to go home …’ Emma gazes at me, her expression confused, and I wonder if she’s been given something – tranquillisers, perhaps. ‘They won’t let me go home.’

‘N-n-not yet,’ I stammer, and I’m just about keeping control of my emotions when I catch sight of the bag again, the contents spilled across the floor – a couple of tiny nappies, a pink Babygro and a packet of glucose tablets – and then I lose it. The full force of Emma’s loss overwhelms me.

‘Er, I’ve got to go,’ I say, gesturing towards the door as tears start streaming down my face. Ben accompanies me to the corridor outside the room.

‘I appreciate you coming, Maz, and I know Emma will too when she’s feeling better.’

‘Do you know what happened?’ I ask, keeping my eyes on the door at the end of the corridor, so Ben can’t see how upset I am.

‘Placental abruption, we think,’ he says. ‘The placenta came away early. There’s no rhyme or reason. It’s one of those things.’

I admire Ben’s self-control – it’s always easier to give bad news than receive it – but now we’re outside, he drops his guard.

‘I’m gutted, of course, but Emma … well, after all she’s been through.’ His voice cracks. ‘It’s been hard for both of us, every month, the reminder, the sense of failure …’

I assume he means the failure to conceive. I’m surprised he’s so open with me - he’s always been very private over personal matters. I turn back to face him, wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my blouse.

‘Can I do anything,’ I say, embarrassed for him, ‘fetch anything?’

‘Would you mind dealing with Miff?’ Ben hands me a key to their house on the new estate. Miff’s their Border terrier, a scruffy but endearing little brown dog. I’ve looked after her before and she’s no trouble. I leap at the chance to make myself useful. My motives are not purely altruistic. I find it easier to go and fetch a bemused Miff, feed her and play ball than confront my innermost feelings.

When I get back to the flat, Miff whines and fidgets in my lap as I sit on the sofa with my feet up, unable to sleep. When I relax, Miff relaxes too. She puts one paw out on my arm and lifts her back leg as if to say, ‘Tickle my tummy.’

I don’t call Alex. All I can think of is how Emma must be feeling, how long she’ll be in labour for and how long the pain will last. All that agony – emotional and physical – for nothing.

I don’t contact Emma for a couple of days. I don’t want to intrude. When I do call her, I slip outside into the garden at the back of Otter House one lunchtime to use my mobile. Tripod comes trotting over to me, chirruping, as Ben answers the phone.

‘Emma’s back home, resting. I’m not sure she’s up to talking yet.’

‘I’ll call back later, shall I?’ I say, catching sight of some brown feathers sticking out of Tripod’s mouth.

‘She’ll be in touch when she’s ready.’

‘She is all right, though?’ I say, unsatisfied with his answer. Have I offended her in some way? Does she think I don’t care? I can see it might come across that way. I mean, it was only by accident that I found out Emma’s baby was a girl. I didn’t ask.

‘She’s as well as can be expected.’

‘And you?’ I bend down and extract what turns out to be a live baby bird from Tripod’s mouth.

‘Bearing up,’ Ben says.

‘Er. Good.’ I tuck the baby bird, which I think is a robin, into the pocket of my scrub top, hoping it won’t die of shock before I get it inside. ‘What about Miff? Do you want me to drop her home?’

‘Would you mind hanging on to her for a little while longer, at least till after the funeral?’

‘Of course I don’t mind.’

‘We’d like you to come. It’ll be next Thursday at the church, eleven o’clock. It’s a small do, just me, Emma and my parents, and yourself. Oh, and Alex, if you want to ask him along too. No black.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I promise, although I know it’s one of those promises that will be hard to keep. ‘Ben, everyone here at Otter House sends their love. We’re all thinking of you.’

‘And talking about us too, no doubt.’ Ben sighs. ‘It’s all right – I know what you lot are like. It’s a shame no one thought about Emma’s feelings before spreading the news all around town. I’m already suffering an overdose of sympathy – and indigestion – with all the casseroles and fruit pies the WI are dropping round.’

‘Well, I don’t know –’ I begin, but Ben interrupts.

‘It’s Frances. It’s bound to be Frances.’

‘She’s very upset.’ She was looking forward to the baby too, but I don’t say it because it feels wrong, imposing someone else’s grief on top of Ben’s.

‘I don’t know why I’m blaming everyone else. It’s my fault. I should’ve taken her straight to the hospital when she said the baby wasn’t moving.’ He swears. Ben never swears. ‘I’m supposed to be a bloody doctor and I’ve let her down. My lovely, lovely wife.’ There’s a sob and the line goes dead, and I head inside, staring at the screen on my mobile and trying not to trip over Tripod at the same time.

‘Izzy,’ I call on my way into Kennels, ‘where are you?’

‘Over here,’ she calls back from where she’s sorting out a drug delivery on the prep bench.

‘I’ve brought you a present.’ I take the baby bird out of my pocket. ‘Actually, it’s from Tripod.’

‘Poor little mite,’ Izzy says, taking a close look at it.

‘It’s in shock, but I thought we’d give it a go.’

‘I’ll find somewhere warm and quiet for it. Push off, Tripod,’ Izzy adds. ‘You’ll have to get him a bell, Maz, or cut another of his legs off, so he can’t run so fast.’

‘Izzy, how could you?’ I know cats are natural hunters, and I don’t like the thought of the bird population being decimated, but I’m secretly pleased that Tripod has at last decided I’m worth a present. ‘Do you mind if I pop out to get some flowers? I thought I’d send some to Emma from all of us.’

‘I’ve already taken some flowers up to the house,’ Izzy says, ‘and I’m saving my money now – I didn’t realise how much weddings cost.’

‘Is that your way of asking for a pay rise?’ I divert the conversation away from Emma, shamed by Izzy’s gesture.

‘I haven’t had one since I started at Otter House. Maz, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I know it isn’t a good time.’

‘It’s as good a time as any,’ I say, feeling guilty of not having thought of it myself. We should put in more effort to keep Izzy sweet: it would be impossible to replace her with someone as competent. ‘I’ll sort it out.’

I try not to think of the pile of paperwork and post that’s already beginning to pile up on the desk in the office because Emma’s away, and make my way to Petals, where Shannon’s mum, Gillian, takes my order and Daisy, the bulldog, mooches up and sniffs at my knees. Daisy’s coat is smooth and mainly white, and Gillian’s hair is a frizzy bottle-blonde, but their features and facial expressions are so similar they’d stand a good chance of winning one of those Dog Most Like Its Owner classes at a novelty dog show. Shannon must take after her father.

‘Shannon told me about Emma’s baby,’ Gillian says, preparing a bouquet of pale pink roses and lilies, finishing it with a white ribbon. ‘It’s a bit of a cheek, but you couldn’t have a quick look at Daisy while you’re here?’ she goes on, as I’m writing the card to go with the flowers. ‘It’s her breathing – she’s always puffing and panting. Shannon says I should make an appointment, but I’m tied up here now she’s working for you. All those hours she puts in, the late finishes, I hardly ever see her.’

Er, what late finishes? I think, and then I realise she’s been staying on way past the end of her working day to be with Drew.

‘I’m glad she’s so keen,’ Gillian goes on proudly, and I don’t like to disillusion her by revealing that her daughter’s actually more keen on our locum vet than vet nursing.

‘Daisy’s put on a bit of weight.’ I kiss her wrinkles, and she takes me by surprise, licking me on the nose. ‘That’s the problem. She could do with losing the equivalent of about half a spaniel. It would really help her breathing, and there are other benefits to her health too. Why don’t you book her in for Izzy’s Slimming Club?’

‘Are you sure it isn’t because she’s got big bones?’ Gillian says doubtfully.

‘Absolutely. I can hardly feel her bones through all that fat.’ I show her how to feel for Daisy’s ribs and point out where her waist should be. ‘No more liver treats and no more leftovers with gravy,’ I add. ‘And no more lounging on the couch. She needs a couple of walks every day.’

‘I suppose it would do us both some good,’ Gillian says, glancing down at her unflattering sweatshirt and scruffy jeans, which enhance rather than hide her own middle-age spread. ‘I’ll have these delivered by five this afternoon – unless you want to deliver them yourself.’

‘I’ll leave it with you,’ I say quickly, as she attaches the card to the bouquet. ‘Thank you,’ and I scurry away.

The baby robin doesn’t make it. I find it a few hours later, lying in the nest of tissue paper Izzy made for it in the incubator we keep for the small furries, the rats and hamsters.

I’m angry at Tripod now – unreasonably angry because he was only doing what cats do – and furious with myself for being such a coward. You see, I can’t face seeing Emma, I can’t support her through this devastating tragedy, not because I’m afraid of breaking down, or being intrusive, but because I’m scared she’ll guess I’m carrying a living baby when hers died inside her.

Chapter Twelve

Cats and Dogs

I’m eating Marmite straight out of the jar now, and I have the empties lined up along the kitchen windowsill ready to go out for recycling. Today I’m feeling queasier than ever, but that has more to do with the fact it’s Thursday, the day of the funeral, than morning sickness.

‘Why don’t you get Drew to do the visit, Maz?’ Frances says when I join her in Reception, tweaking my paw-print scrub top.

‘I’d rather do it.’ I feel quite protective over Sally. She’s my patient. ‘I can go after the funeral.’

‘You’ll be going to the house afterwards.’

‘Ben didn’t mention that.’

‘There’s always a wake,’ says Frances. ‘It wouldn’t be right without one.’

‘It’s a very small, private affair.’ I don’t suppose Emma will want to prolong it.

‘I assume Alexander’s going with you?’

‘He’s busy.’

‘What kind of excuse is that? Your best friend has lost her baby and you’re …’ She hesitates. ‘Well, I know you aren’t ready to tell me yet when there are others who need to know before little old me. Suffice to say, you should have someone with you.’

‘Oh, Frances, I’ll be fine,’ I say, a bit weary of her fussing – and not entirely happy about her making assumptions. I wish too that Frances wasn’t making me feel guilty about not asking Alex. I feel guilty enough that I’m pregnant and Emma isn’t.

Having consulted right up to ten-thirty, I change into a silk corset dress in pale turquoise – I can almost hear the stitching groan as I tug it down over my stomach. I slip into my heels, grab the posy of flowers I ordered from Petals via Shannon and head off, leaving Drew in charge.

‘You’re running late, Maz,’ Frances says disapprovingly. It isn’t until she adds, ‘Give Emma and dear Dr Mackie our love, won’t you?’ that I realise what’s biting her. She’s put out because she wasn’t invited. Well, I’d gladly change places with her.

I pull into the kerb on the road alongside the church, stopping behind the empty hearse. Keeping the engine running, I gaze through the rain at the churchyard, which is crowded with gravestones and bordered by brooding yews. Water drips from the mouths of the gargoyles along the side of the medieval church, which is built on a grand scale with a tower and spire. Through the iron railings, I can make out a small group of people under brightly coloured umbrellas on the far side of the churchyard.

I glance at the posy of flowers on the seat beside me, at the visit case in the footwell.

My heart beats faster and my foot tickles the accelerator and I do one of the worst things I’ve ever done.

I drive away.

I arrive at the Old Forge at Talyford fifteen minutes later to give Sally, the retriever with a taste for turkey, her annual booster.

A young man answers the door with Sally at his side. She whines and wags her tail when she sees me.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Is Penny in?’

‘Yes, she is,’ Penny calls from her chair down the hall. ‘Come in, Maz.’

The man, who’s in his mid-twenties and dressed in jeans and a Linkin Park T-shirt, steps aside to let me through. He’s tall – very tall – with bony shoulders, narrow hips and fair hair in a shaggy, unkempt style, like an undernourished Afghan hound. In fact, if he were a dog, I’d prescribe him some calorie-stuffed recovery diet to fatten him up.

‘Tea would be nice, Declan,’ Penny says.

I don’t think he sees her wink at me as if to say, Isn’t he gorgeous? as he ducks his head under a beam and disappears into the kitchen.

‘Are you and he-?’

‘Oh, goodness no.’ Penny shakes her head, rattling the beads in her hair. ‘He’s far too young … No, he’s the loveliest, kindest human being I’ve ever met – excluding you, of course. I’ll never forget what you did for my Sally.’

I examine Sally and give her the jab. She hardly notices, her eyes fixed on the custard cream that Declan holds out in front of her to distract her.

‘That’s it. All done,’ I say, at which Sally takes the biscuit very gently before swallowing it whole.

I drink my tea, then close up the visit case, aware that Declan’s muttering something to Penny.

‘Please, Pen, put my mind at rest.’

‘I know it isn’t really your department, Maz,’ Penny begins, and I wonder what on earth she’s going to ask me, as she goes on, ‘Sally’s been spending a lot of time sitting at my feet with her nose pushed up against my leg.’ She tugs at her trouser leg, revealing a fluffy pink sock and a shiny white shin. ‘Can you see that mark there?’